Little Green Anorak
by DancingGrimm
Summary: John goes to visit his hungover sister with a basket full of alka-seltzer and spaghetti hoops. But there are scary things in the woods! A brain fart involving Sherlock and Little Red Riding Hood.


Little Green Anorak

Once upon a time, there was a nice man called John, who lived on the edge of a big forest. He lived with his flatmate, Sherlock, in a cottage which was owned by a kind landlady called Mrs Hudson.

Everyone loved John, because he was kind and calm and cool-headed, and attractive in a not-really-conventional way, and because they could safely hide behind him when Sherlock was in a snit. A lot of people, mostly Sherlock's homeless friends, nicknamed him Little Green Anorak, because of the green coat Mrs Hudson had sewed for him, which he often wore when he went out and about in the forest.

One day, John got a phonecall from his sister, Harry.

"John," she said, "I'm hungover."

"Well what do you want me to do about it?" John replied, rather shortly.

"You're a doctor, aren't you? Come and give me medicine or something!"

John chuckled. "The only medicine for hangovers is not drinking, Harry," he chided.

"Pleeeeeease Johneeeeee! I haven't even any groceries in! I want comfort food and a hug. Please?"

John sighed. "Okay," he told her. "I'll be over in a little while."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, as John put on his coat and picked up his basket.

"Harry is hungover and I'm going to take her some Lucozade and paracetamol," John replied.

Sherlock humphed and curled up in his armchair.

"Make sure you stay on the path, John," he advised. "There are some strange people about in the forest lately."

John nodded and left the cottage.

It was a bright and beautiful spring day outside, but once John got into the forest, the air cooled and the shadows deepened. For a while, he was sure he felt somebody watching him, and the feeling followed him all the way to the village shop. He bought all the food and drugs he needed for Harry and, after having a bit of an issue with the cash register, he successfully paid and left the shop, his basket heaving with goodies.

Sherlock's warning bothered him. Their friend, Greg, was the local sheriff, and he'd told them that there had been some weird crimes happening lately. John stuck closely to the path.

The feeling of being followed persisted though and, sure enough, John's soldierly instincts were proved right when a smartly dressed, dark haired man stepped out of the trees, trying to look casual.

"Oh, hello," the man said in a lilting accent. "Are you the one they call 'Little Green Anorak'?"

John looked down at his green anorak, then looked up slightly to meet the man's eyes. "I might be," he replied.

"And where are you going to, Little Green Anorak?"

"I'm off to visit my hungover sister. I'm taking her alka-seltzer and spaghetti hoops."

"Oh, I see," the man said, eyeing John's basket. "And where does your sister live, may I ask?"

"I don't see that it's anything to do with you," John replied, growing suspicious. The man scowled briefly, then ran his eyes over John again and smirked.

"It's easy enough to work out," he said smugly. "I bet I can get there before you, in fact."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the woods again. John took to his heels and chased after him, but in the dense undergrowth and the shadows of the trees, he soon lost him.

"Weirdo," John muttered under his breath, his hand straying to the small of his back. He'd have to tell Greg and Sherlock about him when he got back. For now though, he doubted that the man could work out where Harry lived from looking at John. The only person who could do things like that was Sherlock!

John returned to the path and walked the rest of the way to Harry's cottage without incident. He fished the spare front door key out of a pot of geraniums and let himself in.

"Hello? Harry?" he called into the dimly lit house. "It's me, Little Gre- John. I've brought you Irn Bru and microwave hash browns."

He expected to be met with something like 'fucking hell, John, don't shout!', but instead a wavery voice came out of the bedroom; "I'm in here dear, come and see me."

'Dear'? That didn't sound like Harry.

"Are you okay, Har?" John asked as he went into the bedroom. That room was dimly lit also, and he could just make out the figure sitting up in the bed.

"All the better for seeing you, John," said the person softly.

Harry was blonde. This person wasn't. "My, how dark your hair is, Harry."

"I decided to try a new look. Come closer, John."

John took a step closer. "My, how you smell like Dior Homme, Harry."

"I picked up the wrong bottle at Boots. Come closer, John."

John took a step closer. "My, how Irish you sound, Harry."

"That's...I...oh fuck it," said the man, and he leapt out of the bed towards John with a yell. John braced himself and twisted to make sure the other man hit the ground under him, and they grappled for a minute, each struggling to hit the other. With a heave, the man managed to throw John off and dived for the bed, reaching underneath it to pull out an assault rifle. John grabbed the pistol from the back of his waistband, took aim, and

BOOM!

Outside the cottage, birds fluttered up from the trees in fright.

John kept his gun in hand as he checked the corpse's pulse, just to be safe. Then he set off to find Harry. She was tucked into the hall cupboard, tied up and gagged, but unharmed.

"Mmm mm MMM!" she said, angrily.

John considered it, he really did. Then the front door was flung open with a crash, and he and Harry both tensed.

"Stay here," he hissed at her, and he closed the cupboard door, hoping she'd be safe in there. He returned to the living room, gun held at the ready.

It was Sherlock, holding his harpoon. "John!" he cried. "Are you alright?"

John assured him that he was, and explained what had happened.

"It sounds like the crook that Greg's been having trouble with," Sherlock said after John had finished. "We wondered if he might try something with me, but I didn't expect him to go after you."

"Come and look at him," John offered, and led Sherlock to the bedroom, where the man's body was cooling on the floor.

Sherlock nodded when he saw it. "Looks like the one they're after. We'll let Greg know."

"Great," John replied with a sigh. I'll go and let Harry out."

"Wait," Sherlock said, stopping John with a hand on his arm. "Let's have sex on her bed."

"...What?!"

"It annoys you when she drinks and calls on you for help, yes? If we fuck in her bed, it'll make her think twice before doing it again."

John shook his head. "There are so mnay reasons to argue with that, not least of which is that there's a corpse in here, and-"

"We'll put it in the kitchen. It'll be easier to mop up when its bowels void anyway."

"You're the last of the great romantics, aren't you." John said.

"Grab his ankles," Sherlock commanded.

So that was how John ended up fucking Sherlock in his sister's bed, and also how he got punched in the face by said sister after letting her out of the cupboard, even though he promised to cook hash browns and spaghetti hoops for her while Sherlock was explaining things to Greg.

Then Sherlock and John went home, drank tea, bickered about the state of the kitchen table, and lived happily ever after.

::

I was watching Hoodwinked (great film) in a window while reading Sherlock fan fiction, and the two things bred in my brain and gave birth to this strange bastard child.

I had a corker of a dream the other night. In it, I was walking down a street in the city centre when I saw a man with a shaved head and glasses walk past me and join the end of a queue. I was sure I recognised him and so I walked up to him, and lo and behold, it was Benedict Cumberbatch. He was surprised anyone had recognised him, and let me gush at him for a while about how amazing he is. I asked about his hair and he said he'd been filming Sherlock and had to shave his head because Sherlock's hair got burned off in a fire. He'd recorded a bit of a scene they'd been filming on his phone and he played it for me, and it was Sherlock being told by another character that John was in hospital after a car accident, and Sherlock getting upset and shouting at everybody. Then I realised that he was nearly at the front of the queue to get on a train (which was in the middle of the street, for some reason) and I had to leave. He let me give him a peck on the cheek and got on the train which left, and as the train pulled away, I realised that on the opposite side of the street there was a Lego shop having a sale, so I went and bought myself a discount Lego pirate ship. If that had been real, it would have been one of the nicest days of my life.


End file.
